


Death And The Maiden

by ScatteredWords



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Vampire Laura Hollis, Vampires, my take on the 'Laura becomes a vampire' concept
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 20:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14340582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScatteredWords/pseuds/ScatteredWords
Summary: One can't stand at a crossroads forever. Eventually, one has to pick a path. And Laura Hollis does. (Vampire!Laura)





	1. Prepare For Death

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to post this until it was complete, and now it is. Enjoy!

 It takes months. That’s what nobody ever told you about becoming a vampire.

It’s the first thing she says the first time you broach the subject. “It takes months, cupcake,” in that tone that takes all humor out of the teasing nickname. The tone that makes even your sugar-based epithets into something sacred. She worries at a hole in the battered old quilt, chipped black nail polish visible through sparse purple threads. Outside, snow gusts past the window in some kind of ghostly dance. The leaden gray sky hasn’t lightened in two days, and the slick roads have closed all but the most tenacious convenience stores. There’s nothing but time.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” she says quietly, and you blow an impatient sigh out through your nose.

“You sound like every bad vampire romance novel ever,” you retort.

“I’m right.”

Shifting position under your fuzzy, lime-green blanket, you raise your chin to look her in the eye. “Yes and no. I don’t know the mechanics, but I know I want forever with you.”

She blinks slowly. The hole is abandoned as one hand rises to smooth back your hair and stroke your cheek. “So?”

“So tell me what I’m asking for.”

Your voice doesn’t shake, but hers does. Dimly you realize that has to be a first. As white flakes flutter to the ground and the warm, golden glow of the string lights around the door frame comes to dominate the darkening room, the love of your life pulls you close and tells you that you’ll have to die.

\------------------

“How’s it going?”

You sit up in bed gingerly, flexing your arms and legs carefully to make sure nothing feels sore or stiff. You’re not quite sure what you were expecting, but it wasn’t this…normalcy. No pain, no tense muscles, not even fatigue. Running an experimental hand over your neck and chest yields not even a tender spot.

“Surprisingly okay,” you say, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. “Maybe I’m just really good at this.”

Your chipper smile doesn’t alter Carmilla’s expression at all. Her face remains pale and drawn, her eyes fixed on you with a tightness somewhere behind the too-old gaze you’ve gotten used to. She doesn’t move from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a mug of something steaming in one hand.

“Drink this.” She holds out the mug and the scent of bergamot wafts your way. Oh. Tea.

“Were we out of cocoa?” you quip. Your feet wander aimlessly on the floor, seeking out your ever-present killer bunny slippers.

“No, but I figured you might want something with less sugar,” comes the quiet reply. The bed squeaks as she sits down on it, still not meeting your eyes. It hasn’t taken nearly as long to get used to not hearing her move as it did those first few months, five years ago, when her combat boots suddenly made noise against the floor. You’ve known her longer as a human than a vampire, and yet the latter somehow feels more normal.

In one last valiant attempt to keep the mood light, you duck your head under the curtain of her dark hair and press a kiss to her cheek. “Hey,” you say brightly, “don’t I get ridiculous amounts of sugar for giving blood?”

Her eyes finally settle on yours and you know immediately it was the wrong thing to say. “They give you sugar to replenish your energy. To help you heal. And…” her voice trails off. She looks away.

“Oh.” Realization dawns on you. “Right. I’m- I’m not supposed to be healing.”

“I just thought it might get this over with faster.” Her shoulders tense. Shit. This isn’t how anything was supposed to go. The first morning after, and you’ve already made it weird; nice job, Hollis. You reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear.

“Hey. I’m right here, okay? And I feel fine, so maybe this won’t be as bad as you think. After all, it’s not like I’m really going anywhere.”

She kisses you as hard as she can, lips molding to yours with something like desperation. When you break apart, her eyes are glittering strangely in the early morning sunlight. Her gaze never leaving yours, she sets the mug down on the bedside table and backs out of the room.

Later, the door opens and shuts quietly and she wanders into the kitchen in time to see you dumping the last package of cookies into the garbage. She closes her eyes and sighs, but when she opens them again, there’s no sign of tears.

“So you’re really committing to this, huh?”

You walk over to her and grab her hand. “I committed to you a long time ago.”

\------------

It _will_ take months, she explains as you lie together in your bed on that snowy afternoon. Afterwards, you’ll always think that there’s no better place to learn the details of your slow, impending demise.

And it will be slow. Very slow. Has she emphasized enough how slow things will be? You’re starting to get bored of hearing that by the third repetition.

Six months is her conservative estimate. Six months of being slowly drained, a little at a time, four nights a week or thereabouts. There’s some kind of funky vampire magic involved so that you won’t remember; it will seem like a strange recurring dream. When you remind her that there’s no need for secrecy, she chuckles dryly.

“Innate survival mechanism, cupcake,” she drawls. “I guess we evolved somewhere along the line, because victims couldn’t be awake for this if they tried.”

You know better than to ask if she knows from experience. Fragments of her explanation fill in gaps in your freaky Elle dreams a bit too perfectly. Instead, you look up from absently playing with her fingers long enough to ask, “Was it like this for you?”

She shakes her head. “No. There’s more than one way to skin a cat- or make one, in this case. Mother preferred more occult methods. But any vampire can do what I’m doing. It’s like-” she pauses. “Our nature is consumption. That’s why they used to blame us for tuberculosis outbreaks. This is like consuming so much of someone that you leave another hungry void behind.”

“You’re not just a void,” you reply. “You’re still…you.”

“I’m the me that you know,” she says after a long moment of silence. “Who’s to say if those who knew me in life would see it as you do?”

\---------------

Blankets are good. Blankets are perfect and warm and the greatest human invention of all time. This little nest on the couch is also perfect; you never want to leave it again. With The Great British Bake-Off playing on Netflix and a mug of steaming tea within easy reach, you think this must be something close to heaven.

The door opens and shuts and you revise your definition of heaven to include one grumpy, black-clad vampire.

“Hey,” you call over your shoulder, looking away from a table of perfect religieuse pastries just long enough to catch a flash of dark, diaphanous black cloth against the white kitchen wall.

“Hey,” Carmilla replies. She tosses her keys on the table and sets about her usual post-outing routine of rifling through the cabinets for a snack. Finally, you hear the last cupboard door slam shut and a frustrated groan. “Did you really have to throw out all of the chocolate, buttercup?”

“ ‘S a stimulant,” you reply lazily. “And full of sugar. The opposite of helpful, remember?”

A moment later, she’s standing beside the couch, arms crossed as she stares down at you. She heaves a sigh. “That was just a suggestion, you know. You don’t have to go all medieval monk just because you’re…” she trails off.

“Changing?” you supply. The endless string of euphemisms aren’t much, but they’re the one defense you have against that look that’s been in Carmilla’s eyes too often of late. Pure despair, as if she’s already lost you forever.

“Right. Sure. Changing.” She nudges your feet with one leg. “Budge up, little changeling. This is a public couch.”

You scoot your feet closer to your body, and then think better of it and shift to an entirely new position to snuggle against Carmilla’s side. Her arm slips around your shoulders and you breathe in the jasmine scent of her shampoo as her hair tickles your cheek.

Yep. Definitely heaven.

“You didn’t go to work today.” It’s not a question, and that sets a tiny crack forming at the edge of your private paradise.

“Mm.” You silently will her not to ask again. If she doesn’t ask, this single, shining moment can stay perfect.

“Why not?”

Nothing is perfect.

“I called out,” you reply reluctantly. “I didn’t really feel like going.”

“You didn’t feel up to it.” Another sentence that sounds like a question, but isn’t. Carmilla doesn’t need to ask. She already knows the answer.

“I’m just tired; that’s all,” you say, trying to keep the tone light. Casual. The kind of thing you once tried to convince her was the only bond between you. But you’re starting to believe nothing in your life will ever be light and casual; maybe no-one in the world even knows what that really means. Maybe everyone lives in a private universe of high stakes and desperate circumstances.

(God, she really is rubbing off on you.)

And just like that, she stiffens beside you. You know what comes next, but you still feel her absence like an ache when she gently pushes you back against the thick couch cushions and stands up.

“Do you need anything?” She’s bustling around now, moving faster than her usual languor. She tucks the blankets around your chin; lifts the mug of tea to your lips, ignoring protestations that you can get it yourself until you give up and take a sip. The second it’s back on the table- not the coaster, no matter how many times you complain about rings on the antique ebony –she’s off, muttering about how your feet are like ice and opening and shutting cabinets in search of the heating pad.

In gaining a devoted nurse, you seem to have lost a girlfriend.

\-----------

You’ve already felt it, it turns out. Or at least, the beginning.

Carmilla explains over the course of those few twilight hours, and you make connections in your mind. The strange, shadowy dreams, albeit without that slow draining sensation she describes. The fatigue you chalked up to exams, running a secret kidnapping investigation, and a steady diet of processed sugars. (That last bit makes her chuckle softly, even as her eyes remain troubled.)

“It was similar,” she says, sitting up in bed to grab the mug of blood on the IKEA nightstand. “Lophiiformes was a creature of consumption, too. Working in concert with vampires meant some of our techniques started to overlap.”

The physical act is a simple draining of blood. Magically speaking, though, you begin to suspect something else is being drained along with hemoglobin.

“How do you know what to do?”

She looks away. “Mattie turned an astronomer around 1708.” The tone is a bit too light, too unconcerned. Your brow furrows and you sit up, too.

“Just Mattie?” you ask. When she doesn’t respond and keeps her gaze trained on the wheezing radiator, a cold certainty creeps over you. Things begin slotting into place in your mind.

“It was Elle, wasn’t it? You tried to turn her.”

Her shoulders tense. When she speaks at last, her voice is so quiet you can barely hear it. “I never asked. I just assumed- we were so in love that I assumed she’d want to stay with me forever.”

“That’s what she meant when she said you drank her blood,” you say, heart pounding in your ears. “That’s where all the dreams came from. Her waking up with you biting her neck. You really did that.”

“She didn’t remember it, not really,” Carmilla replies softly. “She guessed, and then got the memories back after she died. It was a mistake, such a huge mistake. I thought if I asked, she’d say no. That was her right, but I didn’t want to risk living without her. I was thoughtless and selfish, and Laura, if I could take it back, I would.”

You’re not sure, in that moment, if it would hurt more to look at Carmilla and see tears in her eyes or none at all.

“How far did you get?” you ask, uncertain if you really want an answer.

“Not far.” Carmilla’s voice sounds hollow now. “I wanted to wait until I knew she loved me. As if that somehow would make it better.”

You take a deep breath. You let it out. What is the appropriate reaction to learning that your vampire girlfriend, who you’re asking to turn you, tried to turn another girl without her permission? Hallmark hasn’t exactly prepared any ready-to-use sentiments for the occasion.

“Which is why you have to be sure.” She turns back to you and you notice what might be a trace of puffiness around her eyes, the tiniest smears in her otherwise perfect liner, redness fast vanishing as the magic that keeps her alive works to make her perfectly appealing for would-be prey again. Her hand reaches for yours but stops short, falling to the blanket an inch away. “I won’t do this unless you’re sure.”

The choice is made and you know what you’re going to say; you’ve known since you kissed her for the first time in spite of everything. But you still hesitate a moment before closing the gap between you by placing your hand over hers.

“I’m sure. I’m here and you asked and I’m saying yes.”

\--------------------------

“Do you have any twos?”

“Go fish.”

You groan and reach across the blanket for the draw pile precariously perched atop your knee. The cards slip and slide over the quilt as you try to grab one off the top without upsetting the whole affair. It occurs to you that the invention of purpose-made card tables suddenly makes a lot more sense.

“The invention of purpose-made card tables suddenly makes a lot more sense,” you mumble as you check the card you’ve drawn.

LaF eyes you over their hand. “I keep saying you should get one of those little leg-tables they make for breakfast in bed. It would make everything so much easier.”

“We have one,” Carmilla replies. Her tone is light, but you still glance at her face for any signs of trouble. Ever since walking became a trial, the subject of your condition has gotten even touchier with her. You’re trying to make this as easy as possible, to remind her that it’s temporary, but that’s a little bit difficult when you’re literally dying.

“Yep!” you say brightly. “But I mostly use it for its intended purpose. You know, breakfast in bed.”

Perry perks up. She folds her cards in her hands and chirps, “I have a great chocolate chip pancake recipe you might like, Laura.”

“Sorry, Perr. No sugar, remember?” You shake your head and adopt a melodramatic tone. “I am cut off from my beloved sweets for all eternity! Or, you know, another month or so.”

“You think you’ll last a month?”

Slowly, you turn towards the window and the tall figure silhouetted against the moonlight streaming in. She’s probably going for some dramatic brooding thing- and you thought your girlfriend brooded like a champion –and it’s spoiled rather by the red Dalek string lights around the window frame and the bright light from the overhead. Danny hasn’t had much to say about your bid for immortality. When you told her, she just nodded and said she’d bring some chicken noodle soup by the next time she was in town. And kept her promise to boot.

“I mean, that was my guess.”

She shrugs. “I’d give you two weeks. Three at the outside.”

“And you’re suddenly an expert?” LaF asks. They sound casual, but you can see the curiosity in their eyes.

Danny wanders back over to her empty chair and plops down in it. “Vampire, remember? I’ve gotten a bit better at sensing death.” She turns her attention to Carmilla. “You know I’m right, don’t you?”

Carmilla’s lips thin. She holds Danny’s gaze for a moment, and if you didn’t know better, you could swear there was some vampire telepathy going on there. But thinking too hard about it gives you a headache.

Well, worsens the dull headache that’s become your constant companion over the last week or so. That’s new and exciting.

You brace yourself for her to walk out of the room and slam the door. Instead, she grabs your hand and strokes the back of it with her thumb. Looking at it, you’re struck for the dozenth time by how easy it is to see the blue veins through your skin.

“Your turn, Ginger #3,” she says to Perry. And the game continues without incident.

\-----------------------------------

Danny turns out to be right.

Two weeks and a day later, you wake up in the middle of the night to one simple, quiet realization. You are about to die.

You can’t say exactly how you know. Sitting up feels beyond you, but that’s been true for about three days now. There’s no silver beam of moonlight shining on the single quilt you shiver underneath; no dramatic spotlight for your life’s final bow. The nightlight burns in the corner, a glowing plastic starburst to echo the faint greenish constellations on the ceiling.

(Carmilla loves being able to see the stars.)

Carmilla is there.

In the corner, watching you, not saying a word. Not moving. Not even breathing, probably. She’s as still as a statue in this moment that feels like it will never end.

A line of poetry runs through your head- _The world says, go. The grave says, come._ That’s what it’s like, you realize dimly. You’re so, so tired. All you want is to rest; to close your eyes and have all the struggles float away like mist chased off by the morning sun.

But Carmilla is there, now at your side, smoothing back the hair from your brow. You dimly realize it’s stuck there with sweat you hadn’t felt. It’s cold, so cold you couldn’t imagine sweating. Now Carmilla is on top of you, her weight and warmth almost enough to press life back into you. Almost, but not quite.

“Carm, I…” you mumble. “I’m tired.”

“I know, love.” Her voice is soft. It does not break or falter. “Do you want this?”

“What…what happens if I say no?” You try to laugh and turn it into a joke, but it comes out more like an entreaty.

Her eyes search your face. “Then you die, and I lay you to rest, and our story is done.”

“I don’t want it to be done.”

“Find the strength to fight for it. But if you can’t, then sleep and dream and know that I loved you so well.” Without another word, her teeth find your throat and latch there, suckling as if her life depends on it.

Your life depends on it.

The world blurs and begins to turn black, but the soft and welcoming black of sleep after a long day. You can feel your eyes closing of their own accord. How nice it would be to sleep, to rest, to finally just let go of struggles and ambitions and justice and star-crossed romance. For a moment, you hear a woman’s voice in your mind, one you’d almost forgotten but so dear you long to run after it.

_Laura. Laura. Is sleep what you want?_

“No.

Your last word. Your last thought before you go spinning off into blackness, clinging to that thread of _no_ like a silver cord tethering you to home.


	2. And Follow Me

Crimson, blue, and gold lights flash through a mist that’s part sweat, part smoke machines, and part overly ambitious body spray. It’s the sort of club people love to hate, with glittery confetti and sticky puddles of spilled booze all over the floor. Not to mention the music, thumping almost loud enough to drown out conscious thought. A sea of bodies writes like a living thing on the dance floor, some dancers trying to shout over the music and others recognizing the futility of attempts at conversation. That deafening music blends it all together, seeping into every corner of the night until it’s alive and pulsing like a beating heart.

At the center of it all, two girls. One of average height and dark-haried, the other petite and the kind of impossibly golden blonde that can only come from a bottle. Their hands are clasped as if nothing could ever pull them apart. They dance as if nothing could ever have existed in one’s world but the other.

The crowd avoids the pair almost unconsciously, leaving a thin margin of empty space around them. Even without any visible identifying marks, it’s clear to everyone in the room what they are. The bright-burning energy and sheer need radiates from them in waves, like heat shimmering above asphalt.

The taller girl lifts her companion up. The smaller girl, being lifted, throws her head back with a smile like all eternity lies in that moment.

Everyone knows it. They are forever.

\----------------------

You float in space forever. You float in space for no time at all.

Sometimes the voice comes back. Once, the sensation of a cool hand stroking your forehead comes with it.

_Laura, sunshine. I’ve missed you so much._

She called you sunshine the last time you heard her. The last time you…a memory floats somewhere in the back of your awareness, with the sound of tires screeching on asphalt and a horn blaring in your ears as the glare of headlights fills the windshield.

 _Where are you?_ you try to call. There’s no sound, no answer, nothing but still blackness on every side.

And then, in the distance, something flares up. The dimmest hint of light turns a corner of the void (that has no corners and is everything) a shade or two brighter. The voice stops floating and seems to anchor to that light so faint you wonder if you’re imagining it.

_I’m here, sweetheart. Come to me. Oh, come to me, please._

You can’t cry; you don’t have a face or a form or tears. But you could swear you feel something catch in the throat that isn’t there. She’s so close, just beyond the light, and pleading for you to come back to her. You can almost feel her arms around you and smell lavender hand lotion enveloping you in a cloud of scent that means home and love and safety.

The light grows brighter, and you realize you’ve begun to draw closer to it. It isn’t hard to do. In fact, it might be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

So why weren’t you doing it before?

There is no before or after or even really a now, but somehow, before, you weren’t going to the voice. You were trying to hold onto something, something that now dances away from the edge of your awareness when you try to grasp it back.

 _Laura._ A note of weariness has entered the voice now. _It’s her. It was her, holding you back from me._

“Her” means nothing- and then it means everything. Memories come pouring in to your awareness: Carmilla leaping into a sickly yellow light with a sword, Carmilla passed out drunk with bloodstains on her lips, Carmilla licking chocolate frosting off your finger. Carmilla kissing you.

What about that voice, though, and the warm, inviting light?

 _You were born to break my heart. All children are._ The voice is still weary, but almost resigned.

_I’ll be back._

_Someday. A long time from now, and in no time at all, you’ll be back,_ the voice agrees. _If you can find your way back to her now._

Your fingertips stop just short of reaching into the light, so brilliant before you now that it almost blinds you. With herculean effort, you find the blackness at the edges of that glowing portal and aim your awareness towards them.

The light vanishes as if someone flicked a switch. And then, the darkness crashes down on you, heavy as an avalanche. As you push against it, struggling in the direction that feels like up, the weight grows more intense until there is only this, only pushing.

Only need.

\------------------------------------------

Carmilla isn’t there when you break the surface. Your eyes must be open because there are colors and shapes in every shade of blue, gray, and silver imaginable, but none of them make sense. The only sound is a dull ringing, as if your ears have been stuffed with cotton wool during a bad bout of tinnitus. Overall, if you had to describe it, you’d say this feels exactly like coming back from a total shutdown of your body. So that’s about as expected, but anything moving would be Carmilla, and nothing’s moving. So there’s no Carmilla.

As if that weren’t enough, there’s the small matter of your throat. It’s on fire.

You gasp, and hear it, so that must be coming back. The cool air rushing through your windpipe does nothing to abate the feeling that you’ve swallowed a lit match. If anything, it intensifies like real fire when given a rush of oxygen. Unbidden, the salt-iron flavor of a dozen lost baby teeth and licked paper cuts springs to mind.

It isn’t until a bastardized, bitter version of that same taste blooms sluggishly into your mouth that you realize you’ve bitten your own lip in desperation.

“Carm…?” The word comes out no louder than a kitten’s mewl. That clearly won’t work But if you could bite your lip-

Slowly, so slowly, you manage to swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Plant first one fist, then the other firmly against the mattress. Lever yourself up and out of bed, feel the momentary triumph of standing on shaky legs- and then collapse to the floor as the room tilts around you like a demented carnival ride.

Somewhere in this apartment, there is blood. And even though your vision is still blurred and your hearing still muffled, by whatever gods might exist, you’re going to find it.

With a burst of newfound determination, you grasp the edge of the bed (which creaks alarmingly; that’s something to explore later) and manage to stagger more or less to your feet.

 _That’s odd._ The bed is practically blanketed with soft white things, arranged around an oval of empty space stretching from the pillow nearly to the foot. You pick one up to examine it more closely, hoping that behaving like you’ve suddenly gone near-sighted will help your vision return; the texture beneath your fingers is velvety and familiar.

Petal. A white rose petal. White roses mean death, you remember Carmilla telling you once.

A dark fear starts to uncurl in your mind.

“Carm!” You try to shout, but only that same, frustratingly weak whimper comes out. “Carmilla Karnstein-” you manage, before your dry and screaming throat decides it’s had enough. Your mouth works furiously, but no sound comes out.

Dropping back to your knees, you pull yourself towards the door. Some part of you is aware that this is faster than you’ve ever crawled in your life, but it still doesn’t feel fast enough. How can you feel completely helpless and yet stronger than before? It doesn’t make sense. But then, nothing has made sense since you woke up.

The door presents a challenge. Gathering all your resolve, you lunge for the knob, catch it, and manage to hang on and twist as you slump back to the floor. It only opens a crack, but that’s enough to get your hand between the doorjamb and the flimsy white wood and push the door ajar. Then you’re through and scrambling across the floor towards the darkened kitchen.

It was a good plan. You just hadn’t accounted for the couch. Your head connects with one mahogany leg, hard. Stars burst before your eyes as you sprawl on the floor.

And then there’s a voice, such a familiar voice that you feel calmer just hearing it.

“…make the arrangements.” The voice sounds far away around the ringing that’s fading much too slowly for your taste. “Yes. Thank you.” There’s a pause. “No, I don’t think so. There’s something else I have to do.” A moment of silence. And then…

The sound of someone crying as though there aren’t tears enough in the world, gasping between sobs in a primal sound so desolate your hair stands on end. It’s too much. With one final push, you force yourself more or less upright.

“Carm.” There’s nothing else to say, but as you fall forward, you see her eyes widen and her arms open almost automatically to catch you. Something dark and pointed falls from her hand and clatters to the polished surface of the coffee table.

As you lapse into unconsciousness again, lying across her lap with your head pillowed against her pajama pants, you glance across the table and dimly recognize a long ebony stake.

\------------------------

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“That I planned to die if you did?” Carmilla strokes a lock of hair back from your forehead and polishes off the bottle of synthetic blood you’ve already mostly drained. “It had to be your choice. I didn’t want you to make a mistake just to save me.”

“Oh.” You fall silent. She cracks another bottle and presses it into your hand.

“I may be a lot of things, love, but I like to think I’m above emotional manipulation.” Her tone turns thoughtful. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“You came back.”

“I always would. I always will.”

\-------------------------

Adjusting is both difficult and worryingly easy.

You clutch her close at dawn and feel her wrap her fingers in your oversized t-shirt with an answering pressure. Neither of you wants to let the other one go, since you came so close to losing that grasp forever. When you open your eyes as the last golden drops of sunlight pour through the window and turn to look at her, she’s already awake, her gaze searching for yours the minute you roll over. She grabs your hand and runs her thumb across the back, whispering, “Never leave me.”

There’s also the small matter of calling off your upcoming funeral, which arises sooner than either of you expected. You’re sitting at the worn kitchen table with Carmilla- the table you always try not to consider the age or value of, though its elaborate scrollwork and clawed feet give you a rough idea –and wolfing down your first chocolate bar in months when a key jingles outside the front door and the lock clicks open before either of you have time to react.

“Carmilla?” a familiar voice calls. Your heart jumps into your throat and you have just enough time to register Perry’s voice before her curly red hair comes into view behind a massive stack of cookie tins. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I’ve been doing a little…a lot of baking and I know bringing food is traditional after a- a de- a loss, so I thought I’d-” She manages to peek around the tartan containers and her rambling stops short. Tins crash to the floor, a few bursting open and scattering macaroons across the floor.

“Laura,” she breathes. “Laura. Laura?”

Her eyes are red and puffy, ringed with shadows as though she hasn’t slept in a day or more, and you feel a twinge of guilt that neither of you thought to call anyone last night.

“Um. Hi, Perry,” you say with an awkward little wave. It’s all you have time for before a massive hug knocks the wind out of you. You wonder briefly if it’s Perry who’s gained vampire speed somehow and not you, but then all of your attention is taken up by the disheveled woman clinging to your shirt and sobbing.

“We- we thought you were gone,” she explains in gasps. “You died. Carmilla said it had been too long and that you weren’t going to- that you wouldn’t- oh, Laura.” She shakes her head as more tears burst forth.

You pat her back. “It’s okay, Perr. I’m here. I didn’t die.” Carmilla raises an eyebrow behind Perry’s shoulder and you add, “I didn’t die permanently.”

“You’re a vampire now?” she asks, raising wet blue eyes from your now-sodden shirt as if she almost expects you to deny it and disappear.

You nod. “Yep. One hundred percent Sanguinary American here,” you reply in your best attempt at a chipper tone around the guilt now threatening to eat you from the inside out. She doesn’t stop crying, but the intensity of her heaving shoulders levels out a bit and her sobs become somewhat less frequent.

It isn’t until later, when you’re both helping Carm clean bits of homemade tea cake off the floor, that you lean over and whisper, “I’m so sorry we didn’t call sooner.”

Perry looks at you with an unreadable expression. “You’re forever now, Laura. Just try to remember that not everyone who loves you is.”

\---------------------

“I was getting sick of you playing nursemaid while I was dying; I don’t need a vampire nanny now.”

Two weeks ago, you might have been surprised at how easy the D-word slipped off your tongue. Somehow all the euphemisms you used during the process itself seem pointless now. Death is an unshakeable part of your life now, so why deny it?

You lived. You died. You rose again.

Carmilla rolls her eyes. “Clearly you do, creampuff. Or do I need to remind you which one of us accidentally burst a beer bottle when she picked it up too eagerly?”

“Listen.” You steady yourself against a brick wall with one hand, trying to turn your whirling thoughts into something cohesive. “I cannot be held responsible for Drunk Laura’s actions.”

“Oh, so you are drunk now?” she replies with a chuckle.

“What? No. I’m not _drunk_ ; I’m just-” the sentence cuts off as your tongue flicks out and catches another, previously overlooked dab of blood on your lower lip. You lap at it eagerly, tasting once again that strange sweetness.

It came from pineapple, the witch said when you raised your head from her neck in surprise. She’d laughed, a deep and throaty sound, and you wondered for a split second if all of Carmilla’s friends were the same kind of rock-and-roll supernatural beings. Didn’t she know any nice werewolf librarians? Bean sidhe vintage fashion enthusiasts? Sirens who loved watching nature documentaries? The witch had sigil tattoos and a truly impressive number of ear piercings, so you guessed not.

Over her shoulder, leaning against what appeared to be a stack of amplifiers, Carmilla had smiled.

“You did good,” she says, in the present, and you push yourself off the wall to grab her hand. You only stumble a little on the cobblestones, so you definitely aren’t drunk. What vampire worth her salt gets drunk on a celebratory beer or four?

“Only because you were there to stop me,” you say.

Carmilla shakes her head. “You stopped yourself, cupcake. I didn’t even have to remind you. Your first taste of human blood, and it went off without a hitch.”

“And that’s great for a fledgling, right? Because of our ravenous, overpowering thirst?” A giggle bursts out of you. Further down the alley, a door swings open and then shut, letting out a moment of crashing drums and wailing guitars. Another club, another night, another party. Not yours, but you hope they’re having a good time.

“Fledglings aren’t any thirstier or wilder than any other vampire, as I’ve told you a hundred times,” she says. She rolls her eyes, but her tone is unmistakably fond when she adds, “You goose.”

Widening your eyes, you honk with your neck craned as far as you can push it. Carmilla laughs, that rich, full sound that’s still rare around anyone but you. It echoes off the dingy walls of the buildings around you, and you wish you could wrap yourself up in it like a blanket.

If you’d known it would be like this, if you’d known how literally she meant that feeling of the wide world opening before you, you would have asked her to turn you long ago. Streetlamps buzz and glow at both ends of the alley, probably silent to human ears but crackling quietly with electricity to you. And the stars…you shouldn’t be able to see them, not in the middle of the city, but there they are, almost as bright in the velvet sky as if you were back in your hometown. And Carmilla, here, Carmilla’s arms drawing you closer, Carmilla’s lips soft against yours and faintly tinged with that acid-sweet blood you just finished licking off your own. If this is what being a damned and soulless monster is, you’ll take it a hundred times before heaven.

That’s what you’re thinking when you hear the scream.

You’ll never forget hearing it, just as you’ll never forget the feeling of Carmilla’s warm skin beneath your hands as they pause beneath her thin tank top. It’s barely a scream. To humans it would probably more like a shout, and not a very loud one at that. The sound of someone who didn’t have time enough to work up more volume or pitch, but it rings in your ears all the same.

A yard or so down, the shadows grow faces in profile. A man. A woman. The man’s hand clamped over the woman’s mouth. The glint of a knife.

Words reach your ears, though part of your realizes they’re being whispered. “-the purse and this can stay civil, alright?”

She can’t be over 30, not so much older than you and decked out sequins and spandex that make her look younger. You can hear the hitch in her breath as she slowly holds out a silver clutch with a shaking hand. Until Carmilla grabs your shoulder firmly, you aren’t even aware that every muscle in your body is tensed to sprint.

The man snatches it, lowers his hand, steps back. “Good. Very good. No need for things to get ugly.” He stares at her for a moment. “Especially not for someone so pretty.”

It’s a moment too long, or maybe the words are one thing too much. You won’t be able to recall, later, whether he had turned to run with his loot or taken a step towards his victim- and that will matter. Because one second the wind is blowing past you like a breath of winter and the next, your fist is connecting with his face. He goes reeling back towards the wall, slamming into it hard. When he looks up, his eyes are more confused than angry.

“What the hell?”

But you aren’t looking at his eyes. You’re looking at the rivulet of deep red, turned orange by the dim glow of the closest streetlight, running down his pale face from his broken nose.

You meant to deliver a righteous Wonder Woman monologue and call the police on him.

You didn’t mean to rip his throat out.

It doesn’t matter what you meant to do. After, when you’re licking the blood off your hands and staring down at the mangled corpse on the ground between two trash cans, all that matters is what you did.

A keening sound pulls you out of your shock for a moment; the woman you’d forgotten is huddled against the opposite wall, knees pulled into her chest, staring at you and shaking as if about to fly apart. Carmilla seems to have forgotten her, too. She looks away from you- had she been staring this whole time? –and crouches down beside the woman.

“Creampuff. The purse.” Her voice is level, but the woman still shrinks back even further.

You pick up the little clutch and give it to Carmilla. The would-be mugger dropped it, right before he-

She hands it back to its owner. “Go. Go home and forget this ever happened. We don’t know who you are or where you live and we don’t care. You don’t know us either. I’d advise you to keep it that way.”

The woman doesn’t need telling twice. She scrambles to her feet, nearly falling over a few times in her rush to get out of the alley. Soon, she reaches the street, rounds the corner, and is gone. You stand on trembling legs and turn to Carmilla.

“Did you know what I was going to do?”

“I suspected, but…no.”

“Why didn’t you try and stop me?” Your voice sounds small even to vampire ears, the question hanging in the night air like a tangible thing. Carmilla pauses, glancing around the dingy space and appearing to consider her words.

“It was going to happen,” she says finally. “I’d rather get it over with sooner than later, and with someone who wasn’t exactly an innocent.”

Seven years ago, when you first met, you would have argued with her. You would have ranted and railed, insisting that you would never kill anyone and that you could be the perfect, Stephanie Meyer-approved humane vampire. Seven years ago, this might have broken you. But you’ve seen the light go out of a man’s eyes before he crumbled into dust as a direct result of your actions, and you’ve died twice and risen twice. Maybe that’s why you don’t argue. Maybe something about becoming this new thing that you are has twisted you, but one way or another-

“I’m okay,” you say quietly. “Why am I okay? It’s not okay that I’m okay. I should be more upset about this; I should mind it.” You slump onto a trash can, barely feeling the cold metal beneath your thin, short skirt.

Carmilla draws close, pushing aside a lock of hair stuck to the drying blood on your chin before tilting your head up. Your eyes meet.

“This is a very important moment, Laura Hollis,” she says. “You’re going to be who you are forever- or at least, for a very long time. So who are you? How you deal with this, what you learn from it, all that matters more than whether you’re consumed by regret.”

You stare into her warm brown eyes and it occurs to you, not for the first time, that you can’t imagine ever getting tired of them. It also occurs to you that that’s probably not how you should feel right after messily killing a man. But “should” or not, it’s the only thought in your head.

“I need to mind this,” you finally say. “I need to not want to do it again. I don’t have to be…consumed by regret, right? But I wouldn’t be me if this meant nothing.”

Carmilla squeezes your shoulders with both hands. “So make it mean something. Even if only in the abstract, in your high-minded moral code. We’re creatures of need, like I said, and if you need something badly enough, you’ll find a way to make it happen.”

She sets the body on fire to cover your fingerprints, eyes solemnly fixed on the bloodied corpse and then reflecting flames without so much as a flicker of an eyelid.  You don’t look away until only a charred, unrecognizable manikin remains. You bear witness to the man’s final passing. Whether he deserved his end or not, it’s out of your hands now.

When you ask if you’ll ever learn to do that, she laughs and tells you you’ll find your own superpowers soon enough. A moment’s rifling through her little leather backpack produces an empty blood-substitute bottle (you never realized just how handy her inability to clean anything would become) and a story for curious passers-by about spilling it all over yourself when some drunken creep bumped into you at the bar. As you head for the street and the rest of the starlight-shining night that stretches ahead of you, you ask, “What will they say when they find the body?”

“It’s a brave new world, Liebling,” she says, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “If we’re lucky, they’ll blame it on a dragon.”

\--------------------------

Everyone knows what they are, these women on the dance floor, eating up the spotlight and the energy of the night like a feast that never ends.

Not every night can be like this. Some nights there are damsels to be saved, or knights, or fell beasts. Some nights there are investigations that need a reporter or age-old dilemmas that need a scholar. Some nights there are triumphs; some, mistakes and regrets. Some nights, there’s just curling up on the couch with Netflix and the perfect ratio of wine to B+.

But the core of it all- two hearts beating together that cannot beat apart, that _need_ each other in a way that nothing else can satisfy –that never changes.

That is forever.


End file.
